Babbitt took several steps forward, bringing into focus his reddened lips, so tender and soft, and his red face, which was overlain with white fuzz. He had white lashes, a big nose, and a long neck. Everything about him disgusted me. He spread out his arms. “What a shame,” he remarked, “a terrible shame. Who could have imagined it…” All this he said in a peculiar foreign language that none of us understood, followed by some remarks in Chinese, which we did understand: “She was delusional, thinking she was a bird …”
The bystanders began talking among themselves, most likely about the relationship between the Bird Fairy and Birdman Han, possibly bringing Speechless Sun into the conversation, maybe even the two children. But I wasn’t interested, and could not have heard what they were saying anyway, since there was a buzzing in my ear, coming from a hornets’ nest on the cliff. Beneath the nest, a raccoon sat on its haunches in front of a marmot, a round, fleshy animal with tiny eyes set close together. Guo Fuzi, the village sorcerer, who was adept at planchette writing and catching ghosts, also had tiny, shifty eyes set close on either side of the bridge of his nose, and had earned the nickname “Marmot.” He stepped out from the crowd and said, “Elder uncle, she’s dead, and no amount of crying will bring her back to life. It’s a hot day, so take her home, give her a funeral, and put her to rest in the ground.” I didn’t know what apron strings he relied upon to call Sima Ku “elder uncle,” nor did I know who might be able to tell me. But Sima Ku nodded and wrung his hands. “Shit,” he said, “what a terrible turn of events!”
Marmot stood behind my second sister, his tiny eyes shifting back and forth. “Elder aunt,” he said, “she’s dead, and it’s the living who count. If you keep crying like that, now that you’re with child, a real tragedy could result. Besides, was our aunty here a real person? When all is said and done, she wasn’t, she was a fairy among birds that had been sent down to the land of mortals as punishment for pecking at the Western Mother’s immortality peaches. Now that her allotted time is up, naturally she has returned to the fairyland where she belongs. You saw with your own eyes how she looked as she floated down from the precipice, as if drunk, as if falling asleep amid heaven and earth, floating so gently. If she were human, she could not have fallen with such ease and grace …” As Marmot spoke of heaven and earth, he tried to pull Second Sister to her feet. “Third Sister,” she kept saying, “such a terrible death …”
“All right,” Sima Ku said, with an impatient wave of his hand, “that’s enough. Stop crying. For someone like her, life was a punishment. Death has brought her immortality.”
“It’s your fault,” Second Sister complained. “You and your flyboy experiment!”
“I flew, didn’t I?” Sima Ku said. “You women don’t understand such momentous events. Staff Officer Ma, have some men carry her back home, then buy a coffin and take care of the funeral arrangements. Adjutant Liu, take the parachutes back up the mountain. Adviser Babbitt and I are going to fly again.”
Marmot pulled Second Sister to her feet and said to the crowd, “Come, you people, lend a hand.”
First Sister was still kneeling on the ground, sniffing her flower, the one stained with Third Sister’s blood. Marmot said to her, “Elder aunt, there’s no need to be so sad. She has returned to her fairyland, and that should make everyone happy …”
The words were barely out of his mouth when First Sister looked up, smiled mysteriously, and stared at Marmot. He muttered something, but did not have the nerve to say more. He hastily mixed with the crowd.
Laidi held up her purple floral pompon and got to her feet, a smile on her face. She stepped over the Bird Fairy’s corpse, stared at Babbitt, and shifted her body under her loose black robe. Her movements were jumpy, like someone with a full bladder. She took a few mincing steps, threw away her floral pompon, and flung herself at Babbitt, wrapping her arms around his neck and flattening her body against his. “Lust,” she muttered, as if feverish, “suffering …”
Babbitt had to struggle to break free of her grip. With sweat coating his face, he said, mixing foreign words with local, “Please, don’t… it’s not you I love …”
Like a red-eyed dog, First Sister spewed every vile comment she knew, then flung herself at Babbitt again. He awkwardly avoided the assault — once, twice, three times — eventually screening himself behind Sixth Sister. Unhappy at being his protection, she began spinning, like a dog trying to shake off a bell tied to its tail. First Sister spun right along with her, while Babbitt, bent at the waist, fought to keep Sixth Sister between him and the attacker. They spun so much it made me dizzy, and a kaleidoscope of images whirled in front of my eyes: arching hips, chests on the attack, the glossy backs of heads, sweaty faces, clumsy legs … My head swam, my heart was a tangle of emotions. First Sister’s screams, Sixth Sister’s shouts, Babbitt’s heavy breathing, and the onlookers’ ambiguous looks. Oily smiles decorated the soldiers’ faces as their lips parted and their chins quivered. The goats, their full udders nearly touching the ground, headed home in a lazy column, my goat leading the way. The shiny coats of the horses and mules. Birds shrieked as they circled above, which must have meant that their eggs or hatchlings were hidden in the nearby grass. That poor, wrretched grass. Flower stems broken by careless feet. A season of debauchery. Second Sister finally managed to grab a handful of First Sister’s black robe. First Sister reached out to Babbitt with both hands. The filthy language pouring from her mouth made people blush. Her robe ripped at the seams, laying bare her shoulder and part of her back. Second Sister jumped up and slapped First Sister, who stopped struggling immediately; foamy drool had gathered at the corners of her mouth, her eyes were glazed. Second Sister slapped her over and over, harder and harder. Dark trickles of blood snaked out of her nostrils and her head slumped against her chest like a drooping sunflower, just before she fell headfirst to the ground.
Exhausted, Second Sister sat down in the grass, gasping for air. Her gasps soon turned to sobs. She pounded her own knees with her fists, as if setting up a rhythm for her sobs.
Sima Ku could not hide the look of excitement on his face. His eyes were fixed on First Sister’s exposed back. Coarse, heavy breathing. He kept rubbing his trousers with his hands, as if they were stained by something that would never rub off.
3
The wedding banquet got underway in the newly whitewashed church at dusk. A dozen or more brilliant light bulbs hanging from the rafters turned the hall brighter than daytime. A machine in the tiny courtyard chugged noisily, sending mysterious currents of electricity through wires and into the bulbs, which emitted a strong light to drive out the darkness and attract moths, which were scalded to death the second they touched one of the bulbs and fell onto the heads of the Sima Battalion officers and gentry representatives from Dalan. Sima Ku was wearing his uniform; his face was radiant as he rose to his feet at the head table and cleared his throat. “For all you members of the militia and the local gentry,” he said, “today’s banquet is being held to celebrate the marriage of our esteemed friend Babbitt and my young sister-in-law Niandi. Such a joyous event deserves a heartfelt round of applause.” Everyone clapped enthusiastically. Sitting in the seat next to Sima Ku, dressed in a white uniform, with a red flower stuck in his shirt pocket, was the beaming guest of honor himself, the young American. His blond hair, slicked down with peanut oil, was as glossy as if it had just been licked clean by dogs. Niandi, who sat in the chair beside him, was wearing a white gown, open at the neck to reveal the top half of her breasts. I nearly drooled. During the wedding ceremony earlier that day, Sima Liang and I had walked down the aisle behind her, carrying the long train of her gown, like the tail of a pheasant. She wore two heavy Chinese roses in her hair; a look of smug contentment showed on her heavily powdered face. Lucky Niandi, how shameless you were. The Bird Fairy’s bones weren’t even cold before you walked down the aisle with the American!
Sima Ku held out a glass that glowed red from the wine inside. “Mr. Babbitt came to u
s out of the sky; the heavens brought us our Babbitt. You all personally witnessed his flying demonstration, and he also rigged the electric lamps that shine above us.” He stopped and pointed to the rafters. “That, folks, is electricity, stolen from the God of Thunder. From the moment Babbitt entered our midst, our guerrilla forces have enjoyed smooth sailing. Babbitt is our Good Fortune General, come to us with a bellyful of brilliant strategies. In a few moments, he’ll reveal something truly eye-opening for us all.” He turned and pointed to a white sheet covering the wall behind the podium from which Pastor Malory had once preached and which had later served Miss Tang of the demolition battalion when she spoke out for resistance against the Japanese. A veil of darkness shrouded my eyes — the electric lights were blinding me. “Now that the war has been won, Mr. Babbitt has said he wants to go home. To make sure that doesn’t happen, we must do whatever it takes to keep him here, show him what is in our hearts. And that is why I’ve taken it upon myself to give him the hand of my young sister-in-law, more beautiful than the angels in Heaven, in marriage. Now a toast to the happiness of Mr. Babbitt and Miss Shangguan Niandi. Bottoms up!”
The guests got noisily to their feet, clinked glasses and — “Bottoms” — tipped back their heads — “Up!”
Niandi held out her glass, displaying the gold wedding ring on her finger, and clinked it against Babbitt’s glass; then she clinked glasses with Sima Ku and Zhaodi. Unhealthy red spots showed on the pale cheeks of Zhaodi, who hadn’t fully regained her strength following childbirth. “It’s time for the bride and groom to drink up,” Sima Ku said. “Link your arms, you two.” Under his guidance, Babbitt and Niandi hooked arms and awkwardly drank the wine in their glasses, to the uproarious delight of the guests, who quickly toasted the newly-weds, before sitting down and entering the fray with their chopsticks; dozens of mouths chewing at the same time produced an irritating cacophony from greasy lips and sweaty cheeks.
Seated at our table, in addition to me, Sima Liang, Sha Zaohua, and Eighth Sister, were a bunch of little brats I didn’t know. I watched them eat. Zaohua was the first to throw down her chopsticks and use her hands. With a drumstick in her left hand and a pig’s foot in her right, she attacked them both, first one and then the other. In order to conserve energy, the children kept their eyes shut as they gnawed and chewed, taking a page out of Eighth Sister’s book. Her cheeks looked to be on fire, her lips were like scarlet clouds; she was more beautiful than the bride. Once the children started grabbing food off the platters, their eyes snapped open; I was saddened by the sight of them tearing apart the corpses of dead animals.
Mother was opposed to Sixth Sister’s marriage to Babbitt, but Sixth Sister said, “Mother, I’ve never told anyone that you killed Grandma.” That silenced Mother, who looked like a withered autumn leaf, and she washed her hands of the wedding plans. The banquet proceeded along predictable lines: conversations between and among tables ended as drinking games got underway. The supply of liquor seemed unending, dishes streamed from the kitchen, with white-uniformed waiters trotting up to the tables, arms lined with platters of food. “Make room — here come braised meatballs — Make room — here come grilled capons — Make room — stewed chicken and mushrooms —”
The guests at our table were all “clean-plate generals.” Make room — glazed pork loin — a glistening pork loin barely landed in the center of our table before several greasy hands reached out for it. Hot! They sucked in their breath like poisonous snakes. But that could not stay their hands, which reached back out and tore off chunks of meat; if the meat fell to the table, they picked it up and crammed it into their mouths. No stopping now. Stretching their necks, they swallowed — mouths open, frowning, teardrops squeezed out of the corners of their eyes. In no time, the platter was empty of skin and meat, nothing but silvery white bones. Then even they were snatched off the platter — time to gnaw at joints and tendons. Green lights emerged from the eyes of those who came away empty-handed and were forced to lick their fingers. Bellies swelled like little leather balls, skinny legs hung pitifully beneath the benches. Green bubbles rose from stomachs that made purring sounds. Make room — sweet-and-sour fish. A big-bellied, stumpy waiter with sagging jowls and flabby cheeks, dressed in white tails, came out carrying a large wooden tray with a white ceramic platter on which lay a huge, seared yellow fish. He was followed by a dozen other waiters, each taller than the one before and all dressed in white tails, carrying identical wooden trays with identical white ceramic platters on which lay similar huge, seared yellow fish. The last one out looked like a utility pole. He placed the tray in the center of our table and made a face at me. He looked familiar somehow. He had a crooked mouth, one of his eyes was closed, and his nose was creased with wrinkles. Fd seen that face somewhere, but where? Had it been at the wedding of Pandi and Lu Liren of the demolition battalion?
The side of the sweet-and-sour fish was scored with a knife from head to tail, the gaps filled with sour orange-colored syrup. One opaque eye was hidden beneath a bed of emerald green onions; its triangular tail hung miserably off the edge of the platter, as if still flapping slightly. Greasy little claws reached out in tentative probes, and since I did not have the heart to watch the fish disfigured, I looked away. Over at the head table, Babbitt and Niandi stood up, each holding a tall-stemmed glass of wine, their free arms linked. With a sort of feminine grace, they approached our table, where all eyes but mine were fixed on the disfigured corpse of the poor fish, the top half of which had been reduced to a bluish backbone. One little claw grabbed the backbone and gave it a shake, freeing the bottom half of its edible portions. Shapeless, steaming piles of fish lay on every other plate at the table. Like young wild beasts, the children dragged their kill to their dens to feast in leisure. Now only a bulging fish head, a handsome, slender tail, and the backbone that connected them remained. The white tablecloth was a mess, everywhere but in front of me, a spot of purity amid the litter, in the center of which stood a glass filled with red wine.
“Bottoms up, my dear little friends,” Babbitt said genially, holding out his glass.
His wife also held out her glass; some of her fingers were bent, others were straight, like an orchid, a gold ring gleaming in the center. A cold white glare rose from the exposed upper half of her breasts. My heart was pounding.
My tablemates clambered to their feet, mouths crammed full of fish, their cheeks, the tips of their noses, even their foreheads, glistening with oil. Sima Liang, who was next to me, wolfed down his mouthful of fish and picked up a corner of the tablecloth to wipe his hands and mouth. I had smooth, fair hands, my outfit was spotless, and my hair had a glossy sheen. My digestive system had never been called on to process the corpse of a living animal, my teeth had never been told to chew the fibers of any vegetation. A line of oily claws held out their glasses harum-scarum and clinked them against those held by the newlyweds. I was the sole exception; I stood in a daze, staring at Niandi’s breasts, gripping the edge of the table with both hands to keep from rushing over and suckling at the breast of my sixth sister.
A look of astonishment filled Babbitt’s eyes. “Why aren’t you eating or drinking?” he asked. “Haven’t you eaten a thing? Not a bite?”
Niandi came briefly down off her cloud and regained some of what had made her my sixth sister. She rubbed the back of my neck with her free hand and said to her new husband, “My brother’s the next thing to an immortal. He doesn’t eat the food of common mortals.”
The redolence emerging from her body threw my heart into a frenzy. In rebellion against my wishes, my hands reached out and grabbed her breasts. Her silk dress was slippery smooth. She yelped in alarm and flung her wine into my face. Her face was scarlet, and as she straightened the twisted bodice of her dress, she cursed: “Little bastard!”
The red wine slipped down my face, a nearly transparent red curtain lowering over my eyes. Niandi’s breasts were like red balloons that crashed together noisily in my head.
Babbitt patte
d my head with one of his big hands. “Your mother’s breasts belong to you, youngster,” he said with a wink. “But your sister’s breasts belong to me. I hope we become friends one day.”
I drew back and glared hatefully at his comical, ugly face. The agony I felt at that moment was beyond words. Tonight, Sixth Sister’s breasts, so glossy, so soft, so sleek, as if carved from jade, peerless treasures, would fall into the hands of that fair-skinned, down-covered American, to grab or stroke or knead at will. Sixth Sister’s milky white breasts, filled with honey, a gastronomical treat unrivaled anywhere, land or sea, would be taken into the mouth of that ivory-toothed American, to bite or nibble or suck dry until only fair skin remained. But what incensed me was the fact that this is what Sixth Sister wanted. Niandi, you slapped me just for tickling you with a grassy tassel, and you flung wine in my face when I barely touched you. But you’ll happily tolerate it when he strokes or bites you. It isn’t fair. You bunch of sluts, why can’t you understand the pain in my heart? No person on earth understands, loves, or knows how to protect breasts the way I do. And you all treat me like a jackass. I cried bitter tears.
Babbitt made a face and shrugged his shoulders. Then he took Niandi by the arm and headed over to toast the other tables. A waiter came up with a tureen of soup with egg drops and something that resembled dead man’s hair floating on the top. My tablemates took their cue from the next table by scooping up the soup, the thicker the better, with white spoons, blowing on it to cool it a bit before sipping. At our table, the soup sprayed and splashed everywhere. Sima Liang poked me. “Try some, Little Uncle,” he said. “It’s good, at least as good as goat’s milk.” “No,” I said. “None for me.” “Then sit down. Everybody’s looking at you.” I looked around. No one was looking at me.